


Stroke

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Locker Room, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shower Sex, genius needs an audience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:36:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8037133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: What happens in an empty locker may or may not stay in an empty locker room.





	Stroke

John’s muscles throbbed. The sweaty shirt peeling from his skin may well have been made from mercury with the effort it took just to get it over his head, not to mention the effort it took to lift his legs enough to get out of his shorts. Every movement kicked off a bone-deep ache, and it felt exquisite. The pain and weakness in his arms and legs only served to remind him of the herculean effort it took to get them that way. He could feel the endorphins pulsing through his veins, better than any manufactured drug, especially the alcohol he would have turned to if not for the abandoned weight room at the university. Blissfully devoid of people.

Because if there was one thing he didn’t want right now, it was conversation. He wanted to work his body to the brink until there was nothing left in his head but the buzz of blood. It wasn’t achievable when school was in session, but then, he didn’t need the escape when it was.

Of course, now that his workout was done, the only thing left to do before returning to his father’s house was shower and change. But, he knew he could stretch that out as well. No need to worry about hot water running out, and with an empty locker room, no one would care if he lingered, let the water beat the tension from his shoulders. Hell, he thought, he might even have a wank, add a bit of oxytocin to the hormonal mix before his circumstances pumped him full of adrenaline.

He felt pretty good about this plan as he wrapped his never-quite-dry towel around his waist, grabbed soap and a flannel, and stood, slamming his locker door with his foot. The blast of air hit his nostrils with the smells of old and new sweat and the antiperspirant that worked fine on a clean body but did nothing to cut through the odors of his locker and all the others around it. Except, of course, for the one the row above and one position to the left.

It smelled like chlorine and spice, like a super clean coffee shop. The smell made his mouth water, and not out of any desire for caffeine or pastries. No, the owner of said locker was what was so delicious. Sherlock Holmes: swimming prodigy. He of the sleek skin, sleek muscles, and tiny bathing suits.

John licked his lips as he passed. He was definitely having a wank before he went home.

He shut his eyes as he walked, pressing his palm to the center of his chest, sliding it down his abdomen before carding his fingers through the hair just above his towel. He imagined smooth skin there instead, long and lean muscle instead of the compact power under his fingertips. He was a fantasy John went to often--too often considering he and the Holmes bloke had barely said two words to each other at a time--but how was he to help himself? The man was gorgeous and spent most of his time nearly naked.

Of course, it was a fantasy he usually indulged in the privacy of his own bedroom, or in the shower of student housing if the situation was particularly desperate. Under normal circumstances, the mere suggestion that he might harbour same sex tendencies was something he kept well under wraps in this setting, but who would know or care? Hell, he could even indulge the daydream of having Sherlock right there in the showers, where anyone could see, his body ensconced in Sherlock’s, his back to Sherlock’s chest, long soapy finger gliding up and down John’s erection.

God, he could practically smell the steam, hear the water beating against the tile, the squelch of soap against skin… Wait.

John’s eyes flew open just in time for his knee to slam against the corner of the bench splitting the aisle between lockers, mere feet from the tiny ledge that kept water from escaping the showers. But, only the most state-of-the-art soundproofing would have stopped the stream of invectives from reaching the current sole occupant.

“Sorry,” John muttered, rubbing his knee as the very object of his fantasy stared him down. “I didn’t expect anyone else to be here.”

Sherlock grunted, twirling a disposable razor in his fingers. “Nor did I.”

Without another word, Sherlock turned back towards the shower head and propped his foot against the wall, leaning over to glide the blade up his calf. Dear God, was this an hallucination? John could see no other explanation that could possibly put him in these circumstances. The man he’d lusted after for months (on whom he’d made no move because they’d never seen each other outside the locker room) was not only here, alone and nude with him, but standing like… that.

With Sherlock’s leg up in the air, arse on display, and body swaying with every swipe of the razor, it was far too easy for John to picture himself walking up behind Sherlock, letting his towel pool to the floor, and nestling his cock between the cheeks of the world’s most perfect bum. In fact, he was certain he’d seen more than one porno that started off exactly like that.

Yes, definitely an hallucination. Best to just ignore it and hope it goes away.

So, John squared his shoulders, draping his towel over the bench that so rudely injured his knee, and marched towards the back wall of the communal shower, in the opposite corner of Sherlock, as far away as he could get. And he most definitely did not peer over his shoulder as he walked by. Nor was he tempted to do the same as he turned on the water.

Unfortunately, with all his concentration decidedly _not_ on the man to his rear, John forgot that water, when it first comes out of the pipes, is cold as shit, and in his surprise, he yelped. He also conveniently forgot that shower floors are slippery, so when he jumped away from the spray, his heel slid out from under him, depositing him square on his arse. Now he really didn’t dare peer over at Sherlock. Though, he had to admit, even just to himself, that he did notice Sherlock watching over his shoulder as John picked himself up and returned himself under the now-hot spray, letting it beat away the flame under his cheeks, or at least spread it to the rest of his body so it was less noticeable.

“Are you all right?” The timbre of Sherlock’s voice must have matched the shower’s resonant frequency because it seemed to surround John, echoing off the walls to rattle inside his ribcage.

John stepped back until the water beat against his chest, putting his breastbone in the middle of a rather noble fight between his racing heart and the university’s overzealous water pressure. Brushing the clinging water droplets from his face, he said, “Yeah. Fine, thanks.”

“You may have bruised your tailbone.”

John’s hand twitched in the direction of said area before he was able to wrangle it into more socially acceptable activities, such as lathering soap into his flannel. “I’m flattered you were looking.”

Dear God, why did he say that? In any other circumstance, it would have just been a bit of harmless flirting, but here? In a men’s locker room? While nude? Could he have possibly come up with a better way to make things more awkward?

“I’d hate for anything bad to happen to it.”

John’s ears perked up. Maybe his comment wasn’t so ill-advised after all. “Yes, the female attendance at rugby games would surely suffer if John Watson’s famous arse were injured.”

Sherlock snorted. “And some of the male as well.”

John couldn’t help it; he smiled as he watched his flannel cover with suds. And, he kept smiling as he transferred all those suds to his body, scrubbing away every vestige of salt and oil he could reach. He almost felt normal, the joking and… flirting? Yes, flirting, breaking the sugar glass tension, not completely, but enough. He still felt the tug of desire urging him to look at Sherlock’s naked body, but he no longer felt as if he might shatter at the slightest glance.

Somehow, that made it easier to concentrate on simply washing his body and getting out as he would in any other circumstance, so when he turned around to rinse his back, dipped the top of his head into the stream of water, and stood back up, what he saw hit him like a punch to the gut.

Sherlock was staring.

John doubted Sherlock was even aware of it because his leg hung in the air, razor hovering above his knee. His body was so still that John wondered whether a freeze ray had been invented and deployed in the past thirty seconds. And his eyes. John was accustomed to some extent of the way Sherlock’s eye color shifted, but here was a color he’d never seen. They were like midnight, and if the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest were any indication, it wasn't a trick of the light.

The gaze was intense, invading, and John knew he should be put off by it, but someone needed to tell his cock that. Really, his cock should know that it was impolite to stare, especially when the object of your gaze is nude, but that just thrilled his cock to no end, made it want to put on a show. And in that moment, the rest of John could have been persuaded, but cocks aren’t known for their patience or strategizing abilities.

Sherlock’s gaze raked up John’s thighs, and just as it met John’s groin, John’s cock twitched. John was very thankful in that moment for his sensible sense of shame, for the blood flooding his cheeks was probably the only thing keeping him from raising a full salute. Still, his cock reminded him, shame was silly when Sherlock was licking his lips like that. John’s knees buckled, that peek of tongue bringing with it a flood of images of John’s cock on it, of Sherlock on his knees, of lips wrapped around him.

But, the same twist of circumstance that brought the sinful tongue also brought reality crashing down upon them. With a visible jerk, Sherlock spun to face his own shower head, and John reluctantly did the same.

John attempted to go back to normal, simply washing and rinsing like any other day, but the truth was he could only dilly-dally so long. His body was already washed, and even an extra scrub under wings and tail would buy him a couple minutes at most. And, now that he knew Sherlock was interested, could he really just let that go?

Hell, no.

For one hysterical moment, John imagined striding across the slippery floor and taking Sherlock’s face into his hands, snogging him until he forgot what a swimming pool looked like, but John did have some semblance of self preservation left within him.

“What brings you here? I didn’t think the swim team had meets over the holidays.” A lame attempt at breaking the ice, but it would have to do.

“They don’t.”

John peered over his shoulder to find Sherlock back to methodically shaving his calves. “Then why are you here?”

Sherlock rinsed the razor, shaking excess water from it before gliding his bare hand over his calf to rinse away the residue of shaving cream. “I imagine the same thing you are.”

John turned away from the shower head, squeezing water from his flannel. “Are you avoiding my family as well? I had no idea word had spread so far.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Using the empty”--he looked pointedly over his shoulder--”athletic center to get in some extra workouts and prepare for the next meet.”

“Do you always shave before meets?”

Sherlock stepped out of the water flow and leaned over to pick up the can of shaving cream. Was that a calculated move? “Yes. It reduces drag.”

John tugged at his bottom lip with his tongue. If that was a calculated move, why not show Sherlock how well it worked. “Everywhere?”

Sherlock dispensed a pile of foam into his palm. “Everywhere not covered by the Speedo.”

At that, Sherlock leaned over once again, spreading foam onto his thighs. The way he was standing was truly unnecessary. He could have lifted one leg, but instead he folded himself in half, rubbing those long fingers up and down his thighs. The blade of his hand bumped his arse, making it bounce.

And again.

“And if--” John cleared his throat. ”Aren’t some places hard to reach?”

Sherlock’s hand slid between his legs, fingertips peeking out, and when they reached the crux--oh, this was definitely a calculated move--they swept inward, leaving a trail of white to the center of his arse and down his perineum. A nice little arrow screaming, “Lick here!”

Sherlock stood, rubbing his hands together under the water flow. Rinsing or celebrating victory? John couldn’t tell and couldn’t care. His hands were tight in the flannel, threads creaking and snapping. It was the only thing keeping him still. If it weren’t for the flannel keeping them occupied, his hands would be all over Sherlock’s body right about now.

Sherlock’s fingers swiped across his lower abdomen. “I’m very flexible.”

“Jesus Christ,” gusted from John’s lungs, and he followed the words across the tile, flannel forgotten. Laws of physics forgotten because he was certain he reached Sherlock before his voice did. And certainly before his brain could register the movement, his hands were on Sherlock’s hips, forehead pressed to the center of his back.

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, body pulling taut like a bow string, and John froze. Oh God, had he read this completely wrong? All that bending and stroking looked like seduction through John’s haze of desire, but in the clear light of day, what was it? If it were anyone else, would John have made the same assumption? Or was this a bloke trying to get ready for a meet that just got assaulted in the shower?

John’s hands leapt from Sherlock’s skin like a frog on a hot plate, his stomach dropping. His head was a bit slower to move, mostly because he couldn’t bring himself to look Sherlock in the eye or see the disdain written across his face. He never had a chance, and if he had, he’d ruined it. He’d at best alienated Sherlock and at worst traumatized him.

His jaw flapped in the wind. “I-- I’m--”

“You’ve made the bold move. Why stop now?”

John winced, brows furrowing. “What?”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder before rolling his eyes. “I thought it was rather obvious, but if you insist on being obtuse--”

Sherlock grabbed both John’s wrists and yanked him forward until their bodies slapped together. As his chest smacked into Sherlock’s back, John’s hips flew forward, sliding his cock along Sherlock’s slippery thigh until it settled right where the arrow had pointed, nestled at the four points where thighs and buttocks meet. And oh, this made John’s cock happy. Finally, it had a lovely little hidey hole to play in.

“Oh my God,” John smeared across Sherlock’s back, hips rolling while his wrists were still pinned in Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock hummed. “Better.”

John’s teeth grazed Sherlock’s shoulder blades in some misguided attempt to get his body under control, but God, Sherlock felt amazing. His thighs gripped John just right. They were smooth as silk, even without the shaving cream easing the way, but at the crux of each push forward, John could feel the fur of Sherlock’s bollocks tickling his glans. 

Sherlock was rocking against him, tilting his hips to maximize each thrust. He was panting, little grunts and sighs vibrating against John’s cheeks and mouth as he lavished Sherlock’s back and shoulders. He longed to reach down, grip Sherlock’s hips to pull back against him, fondle his balls and prick, make him feel as good as he made John feel, but Sherlock still had his wrists.

“Oh,” John groaned, the noise turning into a whine as he told himself they had to stop. “This is a bad idea.”

Sherlock swiped John’s right hand through the foam on his thigh. “Shut up.”

With that, Sherlock brought John’s hand to his cock, encouraging him to curl his fingers around. John obliged, and the roll and tilt of Sherlock’s hips immediately turned into long thrusts, sliding him through the circle of John’s fingers. God, he was hard. Untouched, but stiff as a steel rod. Just the thought made John shiver, made him leak. He could feel the impending orgasm building in his pelvic floor, and it made him angry. No! It couldn’t be over this soon. He tried concentrating on his hand, finding just the right way to jerk off Sherlock as a way to distract him from his own pleasure, but he found using his non-dominant hand to be… challenging.

He tugged at the wrist still in Sherlock’s grip. “I’m left handed.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, his voice deep and resonant, vibrating down John’s body. And then he sucked the first two fingers of John’s hand into his mouth, making John groan, shove Sherlock’s body close to his and hold it there, riding the wave as drop after drop of precome shuddered out of him. It was either that or thrust hard and come right away, and John wasn’t going to let that happen. He wanted to see just what Sherlock had in store.

He fellated those fingers, tongue wriggling and swirling, teeth grazing, lips gripping. By the time Sherlock dragged John’s fingers over his bottom lip, John was left with no doubt of just what that mouth could do. He wanted Sherlock’s mouth on him. He wanted his mouth on Sherlock. He wanted kissing, frotting, fucking. But as his slick fingers were guided to Sherlock’s pebbled nipple, John knew he didn’t want to stop for anything.

Until something creaked.

John froze. “What was that?”

Sherlock braced both palms against the wall, shoving himself back on John. “Nothing. It’s an old building.”

“We should go somewhere else.”

Sherlock growled, batting John’s hand away to take himself in hand. “Don’t be boring.”

John took a shuddering breath. He needed to get control, at least until he could be sure no one else was in the locker room. He craned his neck in an attempt to see down an aisle, bracing himself on Sherlock’s hips, but Sherlock’s voice snapped him back. It was wrecked, hoarse, frustrated, aroused, desperate.

“Is someone here?” he asked, fist flying over his erection.

“I don’t think so.” John stroked Sherlock’s hip, startlement easing the urgency of orgasm enough for John to rock gently into the tunnel between Sherlock’s thighs.

“Lie to me.”

“Oh, fuck!” John collapsed forward. Apparently his reprieve from urgency was bound to be short lived because that statement hit him like a ton of bricks. His hips jerked, and just like that, they were off to the races.

“We’ll have to be quick. They could find us any minute.”

“Yes,” Sherlock huffed, heading tipping back in a pant. “John.”

“Shh.” John clapped his right hand over Sherlock’s mouth. He hated the loss of leverage, but the fantasy was just too good. “We have to be quiet. Can you be quiet for me?”

Sherlock nodded, but no sooner had he finished when a loud moan ripped from his throat.

John pinched Sherlock’s nipple, hissing, “Quiet!”

And just like that, Sherlock shuddered in John’s arms, pushing back against John and wriggling his hips as come splattered the shower wall. Whether the wriggle was for Sherlock’s benefit or his, John couldn’t tell, but the way it set Sherlock’s bollocks rubbing against his glans felt amazing. He was sure that would have made him come in seconds, but it was Sherlock biting into the side of his hand to stay quiet that pushed John over the edge.

He tried to keep himself quiet, keep up the illusion of the fantasy, but a wrecked groan ripped its way from John’s throat nonetheless. He’d never come like this. He felt dirty and ashamed, and it was magnificent. How had he never known?

Wrung out, John collapsed against Sherlock, cheek pressed to his back as their breathing synced and slowed. “Shit,” he sighed. “That was intense.”

“Quite,” Sherlock murmured into his forearm. With a mighty gust, he turned his head to rest it there. “It was about time you did that. You’ve only wanted to for months.”

John winced. “Wait a minute. You knew?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don't be daft.”

“Oh.” His lips pursed. “Does that mean you did or didn't?”

Sherlock heaved a sigh and stood, forcing John to stumble backwards or get stepped on. Sherlock slid under the water, rinsing away the evidence of their extracurricular activities. “Do you like Chinese? There’s a place nearby, open late. Excellent dumplings.”

“Um, yeah.” John scrubbed at the back of his neck, staring down at his messy, pleased cock. “I just need to”--he gestured to his own running shower head--”Are you asking me out?”

Sherlock stared over his shoulder. “Are you always this clueless? Because that’s going to be a problem for me.”

“Um, no. It’s just--” he gestured to his sated body.

Sherlock smirked. “Fair enough. Wash up. Meet me out front. We’ll go for Chinese, and if you still feel like avoiding your family, you can come back to my place.”

John’s heart soared, and his cock would have too if he hadn't just ejaculated. “All right. Though, given your little kink, you might have more fun at mine.”

Sherlock glanced down, sharing a private smile with himself. “That won't be a problem.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta, iamjohnlocked4life.
> 
> I know at least some people reading this are awaiting a new chapter of Say You'll Stay With Me, and I'm hoping you'll accept this as an offering to tide you over.
> 
> I took some time off fanfic to finish a novel for Camp Nano, but as these things do, it took longer to finish than I expected. It's done now, and you can see my warmup for getting back to fanfic above. So, new chapters are coming soon, I promise.


End file.
